


All the Sinners Saints

by Laylah



Series: Which Way Home [5]
Category: Baccano!
Genre: Deals with Demons, M/M, Substitution
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2009-11-14
Updated: 2009-11-14
Packaged: 2017-10-02 15:53:57
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,334
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/8090
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Laylah/pseuds/Laylah
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>[December 1933] Suchiato produces cut crystal glasses and pours both of them rich amber liquor, handing one glass to Luck with a smile. "You shouldn't be so sure I can't help you," he says.</p>
            </blockquote>





	All the Sinners Saints

There's snow already massing in drifts in alleys and against curbs, churning to gray slush in the streets, in the second week of December. The wry joke that Luck's hearing all over town is that it's a good thing the Prohibition's been lifted, because at least a man can have a bottle now to keep him warm if he can't afford fuel for the stove. He steps over an icy puddle, back onto the sidewalk, his head down against the chill wind. The Prohibition's end will mean trouble for him and his brothers, of course, but they'll manage. Diversifying their investments -- into the fights and the casinos, and into the Genoards' legitimate business -- has kept them from truly having to scramble.

The Martillos aren't letting the new law slow them down, either, it seems. There's construction going on in the front room of Alveare, turning it from a false-front bakery into an entrance hall that will lead directly down into the nightclub beneath. Luck watches the progress of the construction for a few minutes before one of the men looks up from fitting rails into a banister and notices him there.

"You looking for somebody?" the man asks.

Luck smiles. "I am, yes," he says. "Have you seen Firo around?"

"Ah, you missed him already," the man answers, shaking his head. "He left early today, something about taking that girl of his out for dinner."

"Of course." He should have known, Luck thinks. There's always a girl eventually, isn't there? Sometimes it seems like he's barely seen Firo since Ennis arrived. "When you see him, could you tell him Luck was looking for him?"

"Perhaps I can help you," someone says from behind him, and Luck turns to face Ronnie Suchiato, one of the Martillo family's senior executives. Luck has had little occasion to deal with him in the past, knows him mostly by sight -- he's strikingly handsome -- and by Firo's assurances that he's more fun than his immaculate suits would suggest.

"Ah, I'm sorry," Luck says. "I'm afraid it's a personal matter, rather than business."

"I suppose there's nothing I can do for you, then," Suchiato says. His voice is low and warm, faintly amused. "Well, all right. Will you come have a drink with me before you go back out in the cold?"

Luck takes off his hat. "Gladly," he says. "Thank you."

He follows Suchiato past the construction, into the back of the building, and up the stairs. He's been here before, most recently last spring, when the Gandors and the Martillos had occasion to pool their resources to bring a large whiskey shipment into the city together, but he doesn't think he's ever visited the particular office where Suchiato leads him. It's warm, well-appointed, the desk and bookcases polished mahogany, the window covered with heavy drapes to keep out the chill. Luck hangs up his hat and overcoat on the rack by the door.

Suchiato produces cut crystal glasses and pours both of them rich amber liquor, handing one glass to Luck with a smile. "You shouldn't be so sure I can't help you," he says.

"Well," Luck hedges, not sure how much Firo has told the rest of the family about the effects of killing Szilard, nor how they would feel about the elixir being passed to more people outside their organization, "it's a rather --"

"You've already had the elixir yourself," Suchiato interrupts, and Luck stops, stunned, "and yet here you are, seeking it. Tell me about the people who mean so much to you."

Luck can feel the hair standing up on the back of his neck. "Who are you?" he asks.

Suchiato smiles. "I'm the one who gave the elixir to Maiza," he says. "And if you interest me, I'm sure I could produce more."

The demon, Luck thinks. Firo has told him parts of the story, how Maiza -- unlikely as it seems -- performed black magic on board that ship and summoned a demon to grant him eternal life. It's been years since Luck made a confession and he can barely remember any of his catechism but the thought still gives him chills.

"Ah, not you, too," Suchiato says, looking dismayed. "Maiza looked at me just like that when he realized who I was." He looks down at his glass. "And I wish you wouldn't call me demon. It always seems to lead to this."

Luck takes a drink. He knows it doesn't truly do anything to steady a man's nerves, but he wants the comfort of it all the same. "You -- are you reading my thoughts?"

"Something like that." Suchiato shrugs. "Well, truly, it's more the heart than the mind that I hear clearly -- hopes, fears. Things you want."

Luck can feel his face heat immediately; trying not to think of anything incriminating only brings the images to the surface of his thoughts. Suchiato will know all his secrets, then. Claire, Firo, Dallas -- "And you -- you want to bargain with me?" he says.

Suchiato smiles wryly. "I'm not after your soul," he says. "I'm...fond of mankind, whatever they might think of me. You're always so fascinating. Tell me about these people you want to give my gift to."

"My brother's wife," Luck says. That's the easiest place to start. "He's not an easy man to understand, and she -- she's been good for him. Good to him." He takes another drink, and the liquor's warmth soothes his throat. "And -- my foster brother, and his fiancée." He shakes his head. "Not that I could tell him what it was. Claire already thinks he's immortal."

"That's more selfish than the first one," Suchiato says. "There's something you want from him that you can't have."

"Not anymore," Luck agrees. There's something perverse about making confession to a demon. Perhaps he will always be driven to do things unnaturally.

"And who else?" Suchiato asks. "There's another."

"He --" Luck hesitates, at a loss for words. He's spent the better part of two years not talking about Dallas to anyone, apart from his brothers' curt _you could do better_ and _let us know if we should hurt him_, and not talking about any of the things they're doing _with_ Dallas himself, and now that someone wants to hear it he doesn't know what to say. Dallas is -- the things they share, if that's even the right word --

"Ah," Suchiato says, and when Luck looks up at him his expression is human and sympathetic. "The human heart is an amazing thing, isn't it?" He smiles. "Before I had one myself I never would have believed I could feel such things."

"Such things," Luck echoes. It sounds as though Suchiato is suggesting that they're alike, that he also wants --

"Perhaps I presume too much. But I think we do have some things in common."

He'll never know if he doesn't ask. "Speaking as a demon who loves men," Luck asks, "or as a man who does?"

"Both, I suppose," Suchiato says. He takes another drink. "The two conditions are similar, are they not?"

"I --" The devil can quote scripture, they say, and if that's so then how much easier would it be to feign camaraderie? But the thought gives Luck pause all the same. "Perhaps I owe you an apology," he says. He thinks of the curl to Dallas's lip when he says _queer_, even -- even now, when their visits are on friendly terms. There's just something about the word that's...always a little uncomfortable, despite its truth.

"I don't think you owe me anything," Suchiato says, "but all right. Apology accepted." He sets his glass down on the corner of his desk. "Luck -- may I call you Luck? I feel as though we're becoming friends."

"Of course," Luck says. Suchiato takes a step toward him, so the distance between them is no longer adequate for polite conversation. His heart rate speeds up, an old reflex from those awkward years after Claire left home, when he used to go looking for the occasional anonymous encounter to take the edge off his frustration. The cues he would have looked for then -- the look in a man's eyes, the openness of stance -- are almost absent, and yet --

Suchiato smiles. "You know what I want," he says, stretching out one hand. "I'm used to that going the other way."

Luck watches his eyes, tries to read the strangeness of Suchiato's expression. "Is this...payment for the elixir?" he asks. The idea sits ill with him; there's nothing appealing about being treated as a whore, even if the payoff would be worth it.

"The payment for the elixir is the same as it has always been," Suchiato says. "I give it to people so that I can see what they do with it. This --" he shrugs. "Am I wrong, to think you find me as appealing as I do you?"

Luck shakes his head. "Not wrong," he says, and his voice comes out hoarse. He sets down what remains of his own drink, and steps into Suchiato's arms.

When he presses his lips to Suchiato's, he has to close his eyes, can't keep meeting that fascinated stare. Suchiato opens his mouth and his tongue meets Luck's, and Luck tries not to embarrass himself by making noise so soon. It feels so different -- Dallas's kisses are aggressive, constantly daring Luck to make anything of them, and Suchiato kisses instead with a slow, patient welcome, a -- an invitation to temptation, to indulgence. Luck opens the buttons of Suchiato's jacket, slides his hands beneath. One of Suchiato's hands cups his face, and Luck shivers.

"It's good, isn't it?" Suchiato asks quietly, as though he's just discovered that. "Tell me how you do this."

"You -- you can read that in my thoughts, can't you?" Luck asks. He tips his head back, and Suchiato's mouth presses warm against his throat. "You already, ah, know. God."

Suchiato hums. "It isn't the same as knowing how you talk about these things. What they mean to you."

The choked sound Luck makes is almost laughter, _should_ be laughter. "I don't -- I _don't_ talk about it," he whispers. "This is already --" his hands are on the buttons of Suchiato's vest now, not asking out of habit before he undoes them -- "this is the most I've talked about it with anyone in years."

"I want to hear you," Suchiato says. "Will you give me that, Luck? Will you talk to me?"

Luck nods. "Yes," he says. He lets go for a moment, because Suchiato is pulling his jacket off his shoulders. He lets it fall to the floor -- it'll wrinkle, and he should take the time to hang it up, but he doesn't care. "I want -- I want to," he says, and then he's fumbling at his own buttons, vest, shirt, too many layers in the way. "Touch me," he says. "Please. I want -- God." He manages an awkward smile. "I'm sorry. Should I not say that?"

"I don't mind," Suchiato says, and smiles back. "You people are the ones with the mythology."

For an instant the blasphemy is nearly as exciting as the rest of the encounter -- and then Suchiato runs his hands over Luck's bared skin, and no, sensation matters more. "You -- will you talk, too?" Luck says. His hand slides to the back of Suchiato's neck, pulls him down to press warm lip against Luck's bare shoulder. "Tell me what -- what you want, not, ah."

"What I want, not what you do," Suchiato finishes for him. "Well, all right. I want to know how this feels. I want to touch you. I want to feel your pleasure. My -- Maiza holds back so much. I want you to show me how to make this good." His hands keep moving, seeking sensitive spots or just exploring to learn the feel of Luck's body, it's hard to be sure. His voice is perfect for this, low and smooth -- not vicious like the tone in Dallas's voice when he talks during sex, but easy, encouraging, hungry. "Now you," he says, his breath against Luck's ear. "Your turn to talk to me."

"I can ask for -- for anything I want to? Anything at all?" Luck says. Suchiato nods, and kisses his throat. Luck knows what he's going to say almost instantly, wonders if Suchiato does, too. "I want your mouth. I want you to suck my cock." His heart pounds -- demon or no, Suchiato is a senior executive for the Martillos, and the insult of asking --

"You don't want me to take offense, though, do you?" Suchiato asks before he can finish the thought. "Well, all right. I don't mind."

Luck's breath catches in his throat as Suchiato pushes him back against the edge of the desk and sets to work on getting his pants open. He hasn't -- after that first time, when it was so clearly making him miserable, Luck hasn't asked Dallas for this. It's been far too long. "I won't," he says, and tries to swallow the moan when Suchiato's warm hands bare his cock. "I'm afraid I won't last."

Suchiato smiles up at him, and that only makes him more certain. "Then don't," Suchiato says. "Or did you want to draw it out?"

His lips are soft, his mouth so hot. "You -- ah -- know the answer to that," Luck manages, gripping the edge of the desk with both hands.

_Well, all right_, says Suchiato's voice, directly into his mind. _Don't wait, then._

"God," Luck says. It's true; Suchiato isn't human. But perhaps he isn't, either, with the elixir in his veins -- and what matters right now is the way this feels, more than philosophical questions. Suchiato's mouth is slick, warm, welcoming, taking Luck's cock deep with no difficulty, and --

_Would you rather I struggled with it?_ he asks, and sounds more amused than offended. _Did you want me to choke?_

"No," Luck gasps out. "No, I -- like this, just like this," and he knows he's not really keeping up his end of the bargain, not saying nearly enough, but he was never as good at that as Dallas is -- as Claire was -- and he can't think enough to put the words together, just gasping for breath, his nerves raw with the intensity of the pleasure, and he spills in Suchiato's mouth without even managing to stammer out a warning.

When Suchiato pulls back, he's licking his lips like a satisfied cat, smiling. "Well," he says. "You're certainly passionate, aren't you?" He stands, smooth and grateful as though being on his knees was no hardship, and Luck reaches for him to pull him close.

The kiss is wet, sloppy, Suchiato's lips slick and swollen, and Luck presses deep to taste himself there. _You like that?_ Suchiato asks. _The taste of your own come in another man's mouth._

Yes, Luck thinks, as clearly as he can. Yes, I like it. I want it. Suchiato's tongue spars with his, and he reaches down between them to find Suchiato's cock -- hard, God, through the fine fabric of his trousers. More.

Suchiato bites his lower lip, and pulls back. "Ask me for what you want," he says.

Luck can't decide if it's unforgivably selfish for him to ask Suchiato for everything he hasn't been doing with Dallas, and decides after a moment that he doesn't care. Who ever heard of a demon objecting to selfishness?

"I want this," he says, squeezing to feel the stiff length of Suchiato's cock in his hand. Suchiato pushes toward the touch, and the look in his eyes is hot, hungry. Wanting. "I want you to," Luck says, and falters.

Where Dallas would finish his sentence for him, suggest what came next, Suchiato only says, "Go on. It's all right."

"You can't just -- just hear it in my thoughts?" Luck asks. He thinks of Claire, of the two times he tried to offer this to strangers -- no; neither of them was...what he wants, and those memories are ugly; he should focus on Claire -- of fullness and heat and surrender.

"You don't want to say it?" Suchiato asks. "Well, all right. I won't insist."

Luck's face heats. "I want you to fuck me," he says.

The light in Suchiato's eyes has to be his imagination. But the way Suchiato reaches for him -- God. "Yes," Suchiato says, "I like how you say that." He kisses Luck again and they fumble with Luck's clothes together, pushing down his pants and his drawers both, and Luck steps out of his shoes so he can get his clothes all the way off -- and Suchiato's hands explore his skin with shameless fascination. Luck had thought it might take him a few minutes to recover, to be ready for more, but his cock is already hardening again.

"Here," he says, and leans back, and Suchiato spreads him out across the desk. he takes Suchiato's hand, guides it down between his legs. "This needs --" well, no; it isn't _need_, honestly, is it? -- "ideally you'd, ah, have something slick to use," and he's remembering Claire, padding triumphantly back from the bathroom with a jar of vaseline -- the oily slickness of it on his fingers when he pushed --

"Ah," Suchiato says. "Like this?" And when he presses his fingers in -- God, no, that's only one, but it's been so long -- it feels warm and wet and easy.

"Yes," Luck says. He closes his eyes, reaches for his cock. "Deeper, but slowly."

Suchiato hums, a noise of satisfaction, and rocks his hand in a languid motion that makes Luck squirm, makes him shiver as the touch wakes nerves he'd almost forgotten about. "Ah," Suchiato says, "you don't hold anything back, do you? You want so much. Take it. Take what you want, Luck."

"More," Luck says. He still has his hand on Suchiato's wrist, can feel the flex of tendons as Suchiato touches him. "Another." He never had as much patience as he should, didn't mind it if Claire left him a little sore when they were younger, and now that no pain ever lingers there's even less reason to hesitate.

"Still in a hurry?" Suchiato asks, as he complies.

Luck takes a few deep breaths. It isn't as urgent now as the first time. He knows that. "Perhaps not," he says. He opens his eyes to meet Suchiato's fascinated smile, and finds the boldness to say, "But I want it to be your cock inside me."

"Well," Suchiato says. "I can hardly complain about that." He shifts, replaces his fingers with the thick heat of his cock, and Luck lets out a shaky breath as he pushes it in. The stretch and burn feels good, stinging at first and then melting into heavy, satisfying fullness. Luck curls his fingers around his cock -- lightly, just a little extra sensation, God, no hurry to finish this.

"Yes," he breathes, as Suchiato's hips press flush against the backs of his thighs. "Yes."

"Even when it hurt," Suchiato says. "You wanted that part, too." He wraps his hands around Luck's thighs and rocks his hips, as slow rolling stroke. "Why do you like it when it hurts?"

"Why?" Luck says. He shakes his head. "I don't know. It's not --" It's not like he wants to be hurt, not like he put up with it when it seemed like the guy he was with didn't care if he got hurt. But this is different from that, only he doesn't have words for it, hopes Suchiato can untangle the reasons from his heart since he can't explain.

"It's wonderful," Suchiato says softly, "the things you're showing me. The way you feel."

Luck smiles faintly, tries to push back against Suchiato's steady thrusts. "The way I feel," he says. "You mean my body or my heart?"

"You'd have me choose?" Suchiato asks. "You know my kind are greedy."

A little shiver runs down Luck's spine at the reminder -- he's having sex with a demon, letting a demon fuck him, and he's damned but it feels _good_.

Suchiato laughs, like they're sharing a secret. "Ah, you love the word, too," he says. "But it's a different thing from you than from the alchemists, isn't it?"

"Is it not --" Luck says, and stops right there.

_It's what you are, isn't it?_ Dallas asked him. _I mean, I won't say it if you're going to get pissed, but it's true, right?_

"Sorry," Luck says -- but Suchiato only shakes his head, and smiles.

"There's no need for that," Suchiato says. "You aren't hurting my feelings, you know." He thrusts harder, and Luck clenches his teeth around a moan. He doesn't know how thick the walls are here, how well sound carries, and as much as he wants to claim it doesn't matter --

"Like that," he says, when the rhythm of Suchiato's thrusts is just right. "Fuck me like that, ah -- it's good, there --"

"This is --" Suchiato moves with him, buried deep, and it's been too long since he had anything like this -- "I'm seeing other ways, other positions, in your memories. But you chose this way -- why?"

Luck finds the breath for a laugh, and it sounds more nervous than he wants it to. "You wanted it some other way?" he asks.

Suchiato strokes the inside of his thigh, makes him shiver. "I'm asking, did you?"

The idea of having Suchiato under him is tempting, and the idea of having Suchiato bend him over the desk -- Luck's cock twitches and his ass clenches and the shudder in his limbs is half panic, but only half, and it's been so long since he let anyone --

No, it's too much. This is already too much. But he can't back out now, doesn't want to -- his hand moves faster on his cock, and he thinks of the last time Dallas came to see him, of pushing Dallas's hand out of the way to make him come. Suchiato hums, slides his hand up Luck's thigh to curl around his cock. Luck lets him, just holds on to the edge of the desk with both hands, feels both taken and taken care of, Suchiato's hand and cock moving in time -- just enough friction, just enough slickness. He's stopped talking again -- it doesn't come naturally for him -- and he hopes it's still enough, wants this to be good for both of them when he feels like this, so -- God -- so --

He turns his head, bites down on his own shoulder when he comes to stop the sound he'd make, and the pain cuts through the pleasure but it's not bad, not at all -- and he hears Suchiato make a noise, too, barely more than a surprised breath, his cock buried deep and pulsing, almost before Luck has finished.

"Ah," Suchiato says afterward, the appreciative tone of a man who's just tasted a fine vintage for the first time. "Yes. That does feel good, doesn't it?"

Luck nods. "For you, too, I hope."

"Of course," Suchiato says. "I'm happy that you're happy." The twist of his lip says he knows exactly how trite and sentimental that sounds. He pulls out, slowly, as considerate as Luck has ever been with anyone, and offers a hand to help Luck sit up.

"Thank you," Luck says. He almost wishes he were sore; he remembers what that was like, but distantly. He's going to want to clean up before he puts his clothes back on.

"You don't want to leave evidence," Suchiato says. "Like a good criminal. Well, all right." He runs his hand down Luck's stomach, wiping away the smear of Luck's come, and in the wake of his touch there's nothing but clean skin, not even sweat-damp.

"If you can do that at crime scenes," Luck says with a smile, "then it's no wonder the Martillos have so little trouble with the police."

Suchiato smiles. "The police are easier to misdirect than that, and the Gandors well know it," he says. He steps back, gives Luck the room to dress again. His attention is oddly neutral now, still expecting something but Luck can't tell what.

And when Luck has dressed again, as best he can without a mirror to help him straighten his tie or comb his hair back into order, he feels oddly calm himself. His body is satisfied, yes, but beyond that -- he can't even tell if he's gotten what he wanted.

"Why is that, do you think?" Suchiato asks, as though they've been discussing it already.

"I -- I don't know," Luck says, but he has his suspicions. If he and Dallas were to -- but they haven't, and if they did it would be awkward and a struggle in all the ways this wasn't, so that's no answer. "It seems my kind is greedy as well."

Suchiato nods. "Of course," he says. "It's why we get along so well." There's a cabinet on the wall, and he opens it, producing a wine bottle with a neatly printed label and setting it on the desk. "You'll be able to divide this among your friends, will you not?"

"Yes," Luck says. He's sure they have bottles and funnels enough from their own whiskey-running operations. "That's the elixir?"

"It is," Suchiato says. "I suppose I should tell you all the rules, shouldn't I? But no. You've heard them from Firo, and it'll be interesting to see what you decide to tell the recipients of your generosity."

Luck looks down at the bottle, and back up again. Suchiato's eyes are unreadable, no color he can name. "You'll be watching me?"

"The men of this century do such fascinating things with their immortality," Suchiato says. "How could I help wanting to see how they spend my gift?"

"Fair enough," Luck says. The nuns at Sunday school weren't so far wrong, to say the devil is always watching for a chance to tempt the unwary. Luck won't let himself mind. He shrugs into his overcoat and reaches for the bottle. "I hope you enjoy the view, then."

Suchiato smiles, warmly enough to make Luck flush. "I'm sure I will."


End file.
